Leave the Knives to Me
by Peahopeless
Summary: A quiet evening is interrupted when Evey hears strange noises outside the Gallery entrance.


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**Disclaimer:** As always, they're not mine and never will be. These characters and places belong to Alan Moore, DC Comics, Wachowski brothers, and Warner Bros. 

**Author's Note:** This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.

**Special notes:** A request from one of V & Evey's readers. I'll say more in a footnote.

A bit of set-up for "Reflections of a Ghost Image" and "Especially".

All Shakespeare is from "Hamlet".

**This story has accompanying artwork.** To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Leave the Knives to Me".

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**Leave the Knives to Me**

" _'I am satisfied in nature,  
Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most  
To my revenge: but in my terms of honour  
I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement,  
Till by some elder masters, of known honour,  
I have a voice and precedent of peace,  
To keep my name ungored.' _"

V read the lines with his typical dramatic flair. Commiserating with Shakespeare's hero. Commiserating also with Shakespeare's villain. -- -- In fiction, as in real life, sometimes it's difficult to accurately place such labels, when one is on the outside looking in.

Laertes and Hamlet. Both had their demons; both, their angels. Both had grappled with anger, only to be drawn in by the lure of revenge. Both had loved, and both had lost. ... ... And perhaps most importantly of all, both had their honour -- -- fighting for what each believed was right and necessary, even if the audience may some day question their motives as misguided. Or even reckless.

Lying with her head pillowed in her beau's lap, Evey saw the similarities -- or rather, heard them -- not only between the two tragic characters in question, but also between those Shakespeare had created, and the very real man she loved.

... ... He did what he had to do, too. Even if it sometimes left him fallible.

"They really are going to fight it out," she thought aloud, still a bit surprised, even though she knew she shouldn't be. "Fight to the ..."

... ... She paused, an unexpected, metallic knocking sound suddenly echoing in from the outer tunnels.

"What was that?" she asked, admittedly a bit concerned. Her head rose from V's legs, her arms leveraging into the sofa cushions. Most times, an odd noise, down here in the abandoned tube tunnels, was nothing to be alarmed over. ... ... But this was not most times.

Only a few days earlier, a rebel cell had been raided, not far from this very underground lair in which they rested. A growing cell, according to the intelligence reports. -- -- Information that her government position made her fortuitously privy to.

V had taken the news with his traditional interest ... that interest bestowed on practically anything his lady love chose to tell him. In this case, however, the cell in question had already received both his attention -- and dismissal.

He knew his surroundings. Such awareness had been a key part of his survival for decades. Of course he had known of the now defunct cell. But his concern had ended there, having seen the group as no immediate threat. Indeed 'growing' was the operative word, as he had explained to Evey when the topic was discussed. More like 'bumbling themselves together', in his opinion. And once the authorities had made their presence known, the cell had been easily dispatched, without requiring V to even raise a knife.

There were, however, a few 'bumblers' who had escaped the net. And no matter how incompetent V thought them to be ... ... no matter how far away he predicted the last lone cowards to have run ... ... at the moment, no strange knocking sounds could possibly sit right with Evey.

"Maybe we should check," she suggested, glancing over her shoulder ... seeking any wisdom he might have on the subject.

And that mask just shook in the negative.

What bothered him the most at the moment -- though he would never dare give it voice -- was the sudden emptiness within his lap. For over an hour, Evey had been curled beside him on the sofa ... the weight of her head placed perfectly atop his thigh ... dark-blonde waves of curls flowing across his leg ... wisps of the same, clinging to his tunic ... her eyes closed and a smile on her face, as she enjoyed their evening together.

Reading under such conditions was difficult. More often than not, his eyes would drift right down off the dry, stark, black and white page ... onto the warm glow of this woman he loved. Never in his life had he been more pleased that these Shakespearean lines had so embedded themselves into his memory. More often than not, his recitation was simply from rote, as he watched his beloved softly breathing in his lap.

And now the rattle of a pipe threatened to ruin the entire scene? That could not be allowed.

"Evey, love," he tried to calm her, his hand resting just heavily enough on her rib cage to prevent her further rise. "It is only the heating system. You've heard it before ... the metal expanding and contracting. After such a harsh winter as now passes away, it's probably in need of some repair. I shall see to it tomorrow. -- -- Do battle with the dastardly coils myself. -- -- You have my word."

She glanced over her shoulder again, only to be confronted with Fawkes's never ending, silent assurance. Then another clanging from the hallway ... this one a little sharper ... ... but still the mask did not move.

... ... And unfortunately, that attitude she recognized too. ... ... The interminable sense of confidence he wore as a second cloak, especially when risk was high.

Long ago, it had accompanied him into the Jordan Tower, only to see him cornered by a lone policeman. It had sent him marching straight into Creedy's fire fight, only to leave him gasping for breath and nearly dead. And one of these days, it was going to get him killed. Like some of his favourite Shakespearean characters, someday, V too would fall.

... ... Her greatest fear. The one she could not shake.

Whatever was going on out there was not the heating system ... of that, she was certain. How many nights had she spent below, in the deep dark cold of winter? She knew the Gallery's natural noises -- -- and that clanging was not among them.

An animal maybe?

She would hope.

"Alright," she finally relented, her tone of voice conveying far less agreement. At his urging, she settled down again -- though her nerves remained jangled and on edge. And while his low voice began the next Shakespearean soliloquy, her eyes stayed watchful ... firmly fixed on the Gallery's main entrance.

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The noises continued over the next several minutes, although V seemed bound and determined to ignore them. He was reaching the highpoint of the play -- the true tragedy that was Hamlet -- and was unlikely to end his performance just because a few pipes or wires somewhere had decided to misbehave.

Evey consoled herself with the knowledge that they were nearing the end. The climax ... then the anti-climax ... and then she would insist that her beau go to check the tunnels. If it was a dog or cat, at least they would know for certain. And if it was indeed the heating system ... ... well, then she would admit she was wrong.

... ... But at least she would be able to sleep tonight.

... ... And so she waited.

... ... And waited.

... ... ... ... Until the voices began.

... ... Strange, unknown voices, from just beyond V's front door.

They mumbled and whispered. Excited maybe? Or frightened? Words she couldn't quite understand. ... ... Something about 'light'? Maybe the light thrown off by the Shadow Gallery? Now discovered by someone lost within the tunnels?

But how had they gotten past the security system?

"Shhh, shhh," Evey hushed, her fingers digging into V's black-clad knee. Her hand had been keeping a tense vigil there, nearly every muscle in her body ready for flight or fight.

V stopped, his own hand flexing on her side. Yes, he had apparently heard it too.

Slowly, the couple separated as the voices grew louder. ... Closer. ... ... And V obviously believed in his lady's concerns now, his hand reaching ominously behind the sofa. The uninvited guests would be given one chance, and one chance only, to prove their innocence before judgment was passed.

Alas though, innocence was not the image projected, when two men stepped through the doorway. -- -- One of them wielded a drawn, fully-cocked pistol.

"Oh my God," Evey whispered, feeling her body freeze.

... ... ... ... Strangers.

... ... Armed strangers. Some of those same, damned rebels, more than likely.

And when the gun swung toward the Gallery's rightful occupants, Evey had never wished so hard -- in her entire life -- to have been wrong.

V was already in action, his hand retrieving a knife from someplace between the sofa and a large trunk. It flashed briefly -- just long enough for Evey to detect its presence -- then flew across the room, ricocheting off the gunman's hand. The strike was successful, the true target found ... ... the pistol clanked to the floor, stealing some of the knife's momentum to twirl several feet distant.

For a split second, the men looked at each other, their shock unashamedly visible. What had they stumbled upon? Was this the elusive V of which they'd heard?

But he was supposed to be dead. ... Wasn't he?

... ... Evey could actually see the confusion play out on their faces ... realization hitting them just as fast as human neurons could fire. And for the briefest of seconds, she almost felt sorry for them. Were they really who she assumed? Did they know what they had just done?

Her pity was indeed short lived though, when the invaders grabbed for their own blades. There was the proof -- their armaments. Yes, Evey concluded, her stomach falling ... ... they were of the rebel group. Or 'a' rebel group. People who would have no pity on she or her beloved ... just as her beloved would have no pity on them.

The next few seconds were nothing but a blur. V was rushing at the rebels with a speed they seemed unable to comprehend. One swung his dagger at the oncoming black shadow, then the other took a similar swipe. Both missed though, as V dove beneath their arms, hitting the floor and sliding between the men's stances.

His destination was not hard for Evey to deduce. A decorative set of daggers hung on the wall behind the strangers. At least she'd always assumed they were decorative. ... ... Perhaps not, given the anxiousness with which the hero sprang to his feet and grabbed the sharp points from their mounting.

What did surprise her, however, was the pistol that had come hurtling back in her direction. As V had taken his dive, his boot had hit the weapon, kicking it backward even as his body moved forward. It spun across the floor ... sliding at a speed comparable to V himself ... then skidded right between her ankles and disappeared beneath the sofa.

At the far end of the room, the newly-armed masked man was now ducking again, as the rebels spun round and took two more unsuccessful slices of the air. Blades flashed above the hero's head ... crossing ... actually threatening the rebel comrades more than they did their intended target.

And when the enemies' pathetic, arcing swings had reached their low points, V hooked each knife with one of his own ... propelling both attackers up and away with good, sturdy, jolts to their arms.

The rebels reeled back, just before Evey herself also sprang into action.

... ... The gun. ... ... She had to get the gun.

Dropping to the floor, panicking to the point she could barely breathe, she reached under the sofa, searching frantically for the pistol.

Where was it? Had it flown out the other side?

She glanced over her shoulder again, just in time to see her beau dueling with one rebel. The second ... slower to have regained his wits ... rushed in, only to have V's boot planted firmly in his chest. Again, the second attacker was thrown back, this time with a strength he surely hadn't expected.

... ... Somehow, Evey had to help.

Her arm swept back and forth, trying to determine the pistol's exact path. Trying to remember the precise angle at which it had come. It had to be down here. It just had to.

At last, her fingers landed on something cold and hard. The pistol? Or the foot of the sofa? Or maybe even another hidden knife? Before she could get a proper grip though, she found herself hauled up and away ... physically.

... ... Literally ... physically.

Someone had grabbed her hair, yanking her violently up from the floor. She let out a cry as her neck was wrenched backward, her weight lifted completely beyond her own control.

It was the rebel who V had kicked aside. Rather than trying to help his buddy, he'd gone after the girl ... deducing her value to the situation. And as for that gun Evey had been searching for -- -- its muzzle was now pressed ominously into the fleshy underside of her jaw.

Many yards away, V spun around, having heard her cry of distress. "Evey!" he shouted, locking his eyes to hers.

She could make no reply though, a rough hand wrapped so tightly around her neck it nearly choked her. All she could do was watch as the scene played out ... her world slowing to a crawl.

... ... The rebel whom V had been battling took full advantage of the momentary distraction, raising his knife with a surge of strength. And then, as Evey watched in horror, the rogue shouted exactly six words -- -- "It is here! Thou art slain!" -- -- and plunged his knife into the man she loved.

... ... She screamed.

... ... She fainted.

... ... She felt the final beat of her heart.

... ... And then she jolted upright from V's lap.

"Evey?" he asked, the panic of his dream voice, now replaced with concern and confusion. His hand slid down her arm. "What's wrong, love?"

Her eyes darted around the room. ... ... No rebels. ... No knives. ... No gun -- neither on the floor or at her neck. "I just," she panted, a bit short of breath. "I just ..."

"A nightmare?" he asked, though he already knew it to be true. He'd suspected she was asleep at one point, but had chosen to continue reading ... admittedly thinking -- or rather hoping -- that it was his own voice that had lulled her under. In retrospect, perhaps that had been an unwise decision. The deaths of Laertes, the queen, the king, and Hamlet himself, did make for a rather morbid series of stanzas.

Evey shook her head, trying to clear it, one hand rising to her chest as she struggled to calm herself. V's hand rose likewise, wrapping around her shoulder to squeeze gently.

"Two rebels," she stated, two fingers rising in additional clarification. "They got in while we weren't looking. And there were knives ... and a gun. You tried to kick it to me while you were diving past them, trying to reach some more daggers. But it came too fast and I missed. Then it was under the sofa ... or the other guy had it ... or something."

She glanced about herself in confusion, the scene already starting to blur within her own head. "And then ... ..."

The mask tilted, V trying his best to make sense of the description. "And then what, love?"

... ... But that, she could not put to words.

... ... Could not describe having witnessed him stabbed ... or the fact that it had been her own fault.

... ... That her own helplessness had proved the one effective weapon against him. -- -- It wasn't the confidence that would do him in. It was she, herself.

"I woke up," she replied, her voice dropping. Her head bowed likewise, and she did her absolute best to gloss over that final, unbearable scene. ... ... "I woke up, and you were saying something about a poisoned mother, or something."

V said nothing, debating with himself how concerned he should be ... how many of her words he should take at face value ... and what she might be hiding beneath. His fingers landed on her chin, unknowingly touching -- unknowingly mending -- that location where her sleeping brain had placed a gun. And once he'd coaxed her face upward, it was in her eyes that he searched for the truth.

... ... There was something she wasn't saying. Something else that distressed her, and that therefore distressed him as well.

"Is there nothing more?" he prompted gently ... a statement of implication, rather than an actual question.

But she only shook her head. "It was probably just the story," she stated, trying to distract his eyes with a fake smile -- and his ears with a change in subject. "No more Hamlet tonight. Ok?"

His attention remained fix for another series of seconds, hesitant to leave her alone with such obviously unrevealed concerns, yet knowing that any amount of prying ... especially from the man she was supposed to trust ... was probably no better of a solution.

"Alright," he replied, that one single word releasing her in more ways than one. No, there would be no more Hamlet ... nor would there be any more questions.

His hand dropped to offer a reassuring squeeze of her fingers, and the place he had been holding in the Shakespearean classic was silently relinquished. "Perhaps I should retrieve the master's collection of sonnets?" he offered. "Or we might abandon the gentleman all together. Would Keats or Eliot be more to your liking?"

He was already rising, fully prepared to collect any other author she might suggest. -- -- Or none at all, if that was what she preferred. ... ... "We will spend the evening however you wish, love. Truly. However you wish."

Well ... she was going to accept the offer of another poet. Her intentions were already forming.

... ... Just as before, she would lay her head gently into his lap -- -- assuming he would still have her after such an odd outburst. Her hand would catch his, coaxing it shyly but purposefully to her midriff ... his touch immeasurably calming to her nerves, whether he realized it or not. And once that low voice of his was purring over a different flow ... a different rhyme and a different reason, speaking of far happier, far lovelier subjects ... then maybe ... just maybe ... the nightmare would dissipate.

That was her plan, and her goal. Indeed, she was already taking the breath required to reply: 'Keats', when another loud clang echoed from the tunnels. And this time, there was an additional pinging noise to follow after.

Evey jumped ... literally jumped in her seat ... her intended utterance coming out as a panicked yelp.

V could only watch in amazement, staring at his beloved. Usually, his steady gaze was a display of affection. But this time -- behind the mask -- it bordered on shock. Was she really so very upset? What on earth could her dream have entailed?

Her eyes pinched for a moment, her hands rising as if she had finally reached her wits' end. "I can't take this," she stated most adamantly. "I just can't."

"I shall investigate," he assured as quickly as he could. His gloved fingers caught hers, squeezing ... trying to snatch his lady away from the obviously lingering night terror.

She nodded ... knowing that V was probably entirely correct. -- -- That his most educated guess would end up being accurate, and this would only waste their precious time by setting him to work on a long, involved repair.

... ... But she just couldn't help herself.

"Thanks," was her answer, as he nodded his gallant willingness. Shakespeare was relegated to a table beside the sofa; a spare knife was taken from an upper bookshelf -- merely as a precaution; and the masked man moved swiftly into the tunnels.

Should she have gone, she wondered silently? At this point, she just didn't know. As much as she hated to admit it, she recognized the message buried in that nightmare. -- -- The admission she was forcing herself to hear.

... ... That she was the weakness. If something happened to him, it would more than likely be due to her own distractions -- -- or at least her own ineptitude. The precedent had been set long ago, hadn't it? Yes, she had helped him at the Jordan tower ... ... and then nearly gotten him shot as she'd bolted from a twisted Cathedral of God. It was the same type of unwitting distraction she had since re-enacted multiple times in her dreams. -- -- And this evening, she'd seen V stabbed as a result.

If there actually were a problem, out there in those tunnels ... would she be able to help? Or would she only cause his downfall?

Minutes passed, with no sound from her beau. No clanging. No signal that he'd found the problem and was currently dealing with it. No groans from rebels, caught lurking where they shouldn't have been. Not even an 'All is well, love,' to put her fears to rest. ... ... Nothing. ... ... And still she waited.

On a hunch ... only a hunch ... she peered cautiously behind the sofa. Had there been a knife there, she might have passed out from shock -- -- which obviously would have done him no good either. But there wasn't, forcing her dream back into the world of the purely imagined. A wave of gratefulness. A wave of relief. ... ... ... Until ... ...

'Bang!' ... another metallic snapping noise, this time implying a greater than natural force, and followed by the clatter of more metal across the floor. My God ... his knife?! And then, an 'Oomph' ... in the voice of her beloved ... groaned through the air.

My God, my God, my God ... ... the panic was rising within her.

She had to help. She had to. Liability or not, distraction or not, she had to help.

Unfortunately, the decorative dagger set had also existed only in her dreams, but there had to be more knives secreted away somewhere. Racing to another bookshelf, she frantically rifled her hands behind the books ... flashing back to her desperate search beneath the sofa, and knowing that she'd probably cut herself the minute she found a blade anyway. But she needed a weapon. And sure enough, her fingers finally collided with the pummel of a knife.

Another clatter was heard from beyond the Gallery ... then a bang ... and V groaned again.

Dear God ... ...

And Evey took off, sprinting into the tunnels.

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Some fifty yards distant, V was busy brushing off the dirt that had just smudged his tunic. He shouldn't have tried it ... he knew that ... but the temptation was just too great.

On a wall-ledge beside him, lay a long, spring-shaped coil ... tempting him yet again.

He was cleaning himself up though, and was just about to head back to his beloved, when it was she who came to him -- -- rushing forward, with a knife clutched in her double-fisted grip.

V recoiled instinctively, rarely having witnessed a blade wielded so haphazardly in front of him. But then just as quickly, the knowledge of what that knife could do to her kicked in, and his arm shot out to grab her wrist.

... ... He still ducked again though.

Evey's eyes scanned their surroundings, infinitely relieved to find no one else about. Apparently the hero had successfully frightened 'them' off.

Then she glanced furtively at his black clothing, searching anywhere and everywhere for signs of blood. ... She'd heard his groan. ... She had heard his groan.

"Evey!" he practically barked. It was his second such exclamation, the first having gone completely unheeded -- and apparently even unheard. His grip strengthened on her wrist, never intending to hurt her, but that knife had to be removed. Gloved fingertips gingerly took a hold of the knife's base, coaxing it from her trembling hands.

Now it was his turn to breath a sigh of relief, and he placed the knife on the ledge -- alongside its equally sharp partner.

Her hands had already dropped to grasp his, her questions flowing freely. ... ... "What happened? Are you hurt? I heard something. ... My God, what happened?"

"Evey," he repeated one last time, his voice firm, demanding her attention ... centering her back to himself. "Nothing at all has happened. As I predicted, the problem lies in the heating system." ... One leather-clad hand left hers, reaching to retrieve that oddly shaped coil. Its ends were rough, as if having been broken off. Or even exploded off.

"The expansion pressure in the system went unbalanced for too long, and hence the knocking sounds commenced. As for this," ... he raised the heavy metal coil ... "I believe it broke free under the growing tensile force."

She just stared at him. Blankly.

Then glanced around once more.

"But something happened," she insisted, stating what she considered to be a truth worthy of serious concern. "I heard you." ... One of her hands moved to his lower arm, squeezing again for any areas that might be damaged. ... "Are you hurt?"

"I am fine, love," he soothed, the mask dipping modestly. "Truly."

... ... And once she seemed assured of that -- -- once her relief over his safety appeared genuine -- -- the mask retreated, and began to bow. Because, you see, it was partially his own fault that her reaction had been so great.

"I'm afraid I must admit something though, my dearest," he began apologetically. "Your dream ... ... you attribute some quite impressive skills to my repertoire. I ... could not resist the urge to attempt them."

The coil was wobbled lightly in emphasis, and he humbly continued. "Tis the approximate weight and size of a typical hand gun. Close enough that I was able to ... test myself ... as it were. Yes, it appears that I can indeed kick a gun away -- and with considerable force -- while diving to the ground."

Realization washed across Evey's face. "You mean those groans were you slamming yourself to the floor?!"

A nod of acknowledgement from the masked man. "I would prefer to think that 'lowering myself at a graceful, yet superior speed,' would be a more fitting description. But in essence ... ... yes."

... ... And now she was angry.

"You scared me half to death!" she admonished, yanking her hands away. One set of fingers made a stroke through her hair, pausing to pinch her forehead in frustration. "Don't do things like that to me!"

"I hasten to guess that it was not solely I who frightened you," he countered gently. "Though I do apologize for my particular part. ... ... It was your dream, wasn't it, love?" ... His voice dropped in commiseration. The truth, given her reaction now, was not hard to deduce. ... "Something terrible happened. ... ... To me?"

It calmed her. Or more accurately, saddened her ... and annoyed her. ... ... At herself. At V. Even at Shakespeare, for writing that damned dueling scene to seep into her head in the first place.

"I just don't like the idea that I can't help," she complained. "I've handled more than a few guns, you know. Back in the days of the revolution. But when it comes to you," ... her finger pointed aggressively at the two knives lying innocently on the ledge ... "and those, I'd only be in the way. I'll end up being the one that gets you killed." It was on those words that her voice finally cracked, the anger revealing just a hint of what really lay beneath.

"Evey," he breathed, gathering her into his arms. If she wished to be angry at him, so be it. But if she would also blame herself, over such a basic concern -- -- such a touching concern, even from the perspective of his own superior fighting skills -- -- that he would not allow. ... ... "You will never be the cause of my death, love," he soothed. "On the contrary, you bring me life. You have always brought me nothing but life." ... The mask pressed to her head. ... "Don't you see that?"

She let out a breath, her body sighing against his. -- -- Wordless assurance that she was at least listening, even if she was not yet prepared to agree.

Quite frankly, she'd had just about enough of dueling, fighting, rebels, and just about anything else that moved faster than a snail, for the remainder of this day. "Let's just go back to Keats. Ok?" she requested. Her head rose, her chin propping to V's chest ... eyes that were trying to believe, finally returning to his. "Something very quiet and very calm."

And V could only nod.

... ...She would see these things ... eventually. Just as he himself was finally beginning to learn his own lessons. And in the meantime, he would offer an alternative. -- -- Anything that might ease his beloved's worry. ... ...

"For tonight. Yes, Keats sounds like an excellent choice. ... And tomorrow, if you would like, perhaps I could instruct you in one or two self-defense positions. If that is your concern, then we will attempt to alleviate it. ... Would that please you, love?"

... ... It was an offer that really did present a solution. One that might genuinely allow her to feel a shred of competence when alongside her masked hero. ... ... "Yeah, I'd like that," she agreed, even her voice lifting at the idea. "I'd like that a lot."

"Good," he grinned. "I look forward to it immensely."

And as they began to turn, about to traverse this utterly safe tunnel back to their Gallery hideaway, his hand reached out and gathered up his two blades. He could still see Evey rushing at him, wielding one in a quite horrific way. And so, there was one final temptation he could not resist. A warning ... and a bit of a jest. ... ... "But perhaps, my dearest lady," he suggested, "you should leave the knives to me."

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**Footnote:** A V/Evey reader actually dreamed the first half of this story. The request was for me to 'explain it' or 'fill it in'.

**Author's Note:** This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.

**This story has accompanying artwork.** To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Leave the Knives to Me".


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